


Cry With Full Throat

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Backstory, Body Horror, Dark, Demons, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Going to Hell, Headcanon, Hell, Horror, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Torture, Torture, Transformation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alastair is not someone to be trifled with and forgotten. Dean became his pet project, his favorite, his protege — and no matter where Dean runs or how hard he tries to get away, Alastair's influence slowly tangles itself up in every thread of Dean's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. shining, shimmering, splendid (prologue).

Alastair’s new to the pit. fresh off ten years establishing himself as a menace in Scottish clan warfare, in years to come people will talk about Sawney Bean and other cannibals, because the thought of men eating the flesh of other men is more comforting to consider than Alastair’s cruelty.

he made a Deal with Lilith after seeing most of his clan and their home destroyed, and as he stretches out on her rack; as she hangs him upside down with hooks in his ankles, all he can think is that the trade was worth everything she can do to him.

he even starts to like the pain after a while. he loves the feeling of her talons digging into where his internal organs used to be. he keeps no secrets from Lilith; only pretends to do so, so that she can give him the pleasure of her worming around inside him and unearthing them. so that she can enjoy that process, because she tells him that it’s a chore and that he isn’t worth her effort.

but he knows she’s lying, he knows it’s all a game for both of them.

after some untold centuries he finally climbs off the rack to torture souls himself. finally picks up a razor, and that’s when the final change takes place: he’s been broken, beaten, carved up, reset, bled dry, and put back together just to suffer again. he's had his dreams torn out of his skull and felt them bleeding, hot and thick and full of clots, of some unidentifiable substance. he's heard Lilith pick out minuets on his heartstrings, felt the shocks and waves of pain crashing throughout his entire body as she did, and been unable to run from the memories of his life — of his late wife, of their son who now rains terror on people in his father's stead, of his daughter who has become a witch and begun to learn the dark secrets in which Lilith never managed to interest Alastair.

he only barely resembles himself anymore, the self he used to be. his body has become a map of scars and fractures, all blenched white like a bone left in the sun. and as soon as his feet hit the floor they crack and break and become hooves, his legs adjust themselves into a faun’s, bent at the knee and able to walk on his new feet.

and then the wings sprout from his back: black and gnarled things, like a bat’s — but not any bat from the earth. his wings are too scabbed to be that clean, and that’s when he sees the ones that Lilith has. all white and scaly and fluttering. like nothing he's ever seen. like nothing he's ever dreamed of, not even in his wildest fancies.

whatever new kind of beast he is, Alastair sees the world with his new eyes. glimmering white things that don't cast light but simply glow a lighter shade of darkness than what surrounds him.

Alastair sees a new world, and it’s all more beautiful than ever before.


	2. Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives, and I decline.

When the Devil's Gate opens in Wyoming, hundreds of demons screech about getting out, and seeing the world with their new, predatory eyes, and all the havoc they intend to wreak on the simple-minded humans—they rush for the opening, clawing at each other's backs, trampling each other just to try and get there before the doors slam shut again.

Alastair sighs. He looks up from his latest project, casts his white, disdainful eyes around the Pit and her inhabitants, and mutters to himself that the younglings just have no more respect for craftsmanship, for _patience_ —no one appreciates the work of an artist, these days; it's all about instant gratification and who tricks the most souls.

Beneath his gnarled, bony fingers, the soul writhes and screams and begs—a mishmash litany of _no_ 's, and _please_ 's, and _please don't_ s, and _no, no, please, I swear, I didn't mean it_ 's—and Alastair jams his claws into her chest, rips at the memories that it contains, but as they come tearing out, he can't get any satisfaction from them.

"You haven't got anything to offer, child," he sneers, twisting a talon around in the recollection of that magical evening when the little bitch sold her soul. He sighs again, twirling it up on his finger and yanking, and her shrieks don't do the trick, either. "You got to be Prom Queen ten years ago and now we have you for eternity… Truly a pity for you. I do hope it was worth the effort on your part. Someone ought to be getting something out of this…"

Her wails briefly cut him off, a question of what he means making itself clear through all the indecipherable despair. Rolling his eyes, he drags his claw down further. More of her memories swim up at him, and they're all so pedestrian. He wishes he remembered how to cry.

Still, she asked him, so he explains: "I'm of the opinion that we down here got cheated on your Deal—that we get cheated constantly. Unfortunately for you, no one asks for _my_ opinion on how to run things anymore, but… if they had, you never would've been able to summon one of our crossroads kids, and you would've gotten your crown anyway—"

She gasps, for once, and he gives her a smirk for the audacity. "Oh, yes, child. You didn't need our help with that."

Tears glisten in the darkness, trailing down the slut's cheeks as she whimpers for mercy, asks Alastair what he means, that whatever he wants, she'll give it to him, and then picks up the screaming, _no no no no no_ —

He digs in deeper still. Tells her that, in his heyday, demons didn't make deals for just any old soul that got its hands on some summoning rituals. Oh, no, they wanted the best of the lot, the greatest of the greatest—"All of the work you have to put into breaking an Ehud ben-Gera or an Alexander of Macedonia, an Agrippina or a Doctor Faustus—it pays off, you know."

He pauses, in a spot between where her ribs had been, and scratches at a spot that seems a little _too_ smooth… like she's covering something up. And when he continues talking, he doesn't stop worrying at the spot: "I think you people have an expression for it… _Hazor'im bedim'a—berina yiqtsoro_ …" He glances down just in time to see her brow knot in confusion, rather than in the pain she screams in when he impales that smooth spot.

"It's Hebrew, child— _sow with sorrow, reap with song_ —and so it is with souls down here. See, you… You're screaming, and recanting, and offering everything you can think of, even when I've told you that you haven't got anything that I want… It takes so much more effort to get this out of the magnificent souls, but we always get them in the end. And they burn down here, like everyone. And their humanity withers away, piece by piece, until they become our _best_ demons. Works of art… the ones who lead armies, and not the cannon-fodder wastes of space like you."

He lets the smooth spot go for now, scraping his nails along the remnants of her bones, instead, and they sing of the easy life she's had—no hard choices, no miracles she didn't take for granted, no triumph of good over evil or evil over good, nothing of great importance to anyone but herself, no real layers to peel away. The sweet and innocent, all-loving "facade" she thinks she gave in life might as well be made of glass; he can see her simpering selfishness and, after all, it takes a truly _pathetic_ human being to trade an _ever-living soul_ for a cheap plastic tiara and an evening of bragging rights.

That's all she is: self-indulgence. Pettiness. Meaninglessness and trivialities.

"You were nothing on earth," Alastair whispers, "and no matter how much we carve and break and reset you, you'll still be nothing as a demon. We really ought not waste our magic on paltry, feeble, worthless slime like you, but—" He grins, bares for her a mouth full of fangs, rows upon rows of them, like a shark's maw—"we always need some more fuel for our fires."

A gunshot-sounding snap.

"Take this one away, boys. She's tedious—give her to, oh… what's his name? …The psychoanalyst down in the Malebolge. Let him pick at all her rubbish thoughts. I'm done with her."

 

When the Seven Sins fail to live up to their "Deadly" moniker, Alastair only even notices because Envy comes to see him. He's hard at work—pretending to be, anyway, ghosting his fingers up and down a soul stretched out on his rack, humming some tune he picked up somewhere or other about rings and roses and everyone falling down… It keeps things lively, just the slightest bit interesting.

And Alastair _requires_ that they be interesting… This group of souls is hardly noteworthy. All textbook examples of Terrible Human Beings Who Deserve Hell, all chomping at the bit to end their own suffering. Fresh off the shame of getting exorcised, Lust slithers down to his corner of the Pit and reclines to watch him at his best, and even without probing into her to get her _honest_ opinion, Alastair knows that she knows that he's hardly living up to what she wants to see.

Granted, her bar for him's set rather high. She's not the first Lust, the one Lilith gave birth to eons ago, but she's held the title long enough that very few demons remember that someone came before her. Alastair's one of the few. He picked her out of some backwater Roman province and, after leading her to prove her superiority, her cunning, her determination, he dragged her down to Hell and made a project out of her.

She may not be his finest work, but she's damned near close, and her eagerness to sit in on his sessions with other souls gives him a warm feeling—a sense of pleasure at seeing his accomplishments acknowledged, yes, but also a nicer one, one he might forget otherwise.

Even with that tight, distant frown on her face, even as she watches him going through the motions, he's pleased with his little monster, pleased to have her around. In his own way, even sorry that he can't give her the show show wants today. But how can he do his best work when they keep sending him these useless things to work with?

"Maybe you need a change of scenery for a while," she suggests. "I heard they'll be picking out replacements for the others soon—and you wouldn't do well to pick up Avarice's mantle, or Gluttony's… but you could do well in Pride's position. At least, you could consider it."

Alastair sighs, impaling some handsy, pedophile principal on a spike. "I _could_ consider it, but I won't—I mean, all of the trips up to that arctic wasteland and for what? So that I can have the privilege of leaving my work in the hands of inferior tormentors? So that I can lay claim some special title that makes the weaklings cower and beg to fetch me a glass of blood? …Why would I need any of that?"

She arches an eyebrow at him—rather, arches the knotted, scarred up flesh that used to have an eyebrow on it. "You need something."

It's true. He can acquiesce to that much. He can admit the boredom that's set in down here—all the promises that Lilith and Azazel made about Lucifer's return… and it's coming. Alastair knows that it is. …But John Winchester won't break. They can't get their hands on that older boy of his. There's no one else who can break the First Seal—no one righteous enough, no one capable enough, no one with enough fortitude or moral fiber…

And Azazel didn't return from opening the Devil's Gate. Rumors say he's dead and judging from the chaos their legions have rallied into, the rumors are true. He'd keep everyone in line, were he still alive. Lilith's out, raising an army, pushing the plans forward. Alastair runs his tongue along his teeth, presses it into the knife-sharp edges of his canines just to feel something, _anything_ but the malaise of waiting.

And without a second thought, he smiles to Lust and tells her that he's fine.

It's not the end of the world yet, not even close. And even if it were… he'd still be fine.

As long as there's some soul beneath his razor, he can ignore this gaping hole where he remembers his heart being, the void that's come into being beneath his pulsing black core. His fingers itch for something better, something more… something _special_. But he can do his job. He can keep on as he always has.

Because he's fine.

He's _fine_.

 _He's_ **fine**.

And he'll believe it if it kills him.


	3. Satan cries, "Take aim!"

When one, Bela (nee Abigail) Talbot, comes to Hell, it puts Lilith in a good mood, one good enough to start new fires all around Hell's rocky terrain. Wherever her feet touch down, she starts one and souls are thrown into them. Demons bask in the shoddy imitation of light, burning themselves and laughing as they do. And Alastair only notices because the First throws her arms around his shoulders in a tight embrace, with a dark grin beaming out of the hard, twisted flesh of her face, as though she’s still inside one of the little girls she loves so much to torment, squealing in delight over puppies and birthday cake or whatever else.

She attacks him from behind, nuzzles up against his neck while he sharpens his razors, cleans the refuse off of his blades. "Can't you feel it, though, Ali?" Lilith coos, brushing her fingers up and down the sharp-edged ridges of his spine. It should please them both, but the only notes of pleasure come from her as she slices her fingers.

“All I feel, my dear,” he says, sighing as he takes one of his favorite tools to its grindstone, “is that nagging skin-crawl of anticipation. That one that only comes when one has every reason to fear that the reality of a thing will never live up to its expectations.” Sparks fly around them as he works on his razor—they flare up in the darkness, brief flashes that would strain the eyes of a lesser demon, and before they can truly illuminate anything, they die off. "Forgive me, darling, if I'm not nearly so enthusiastic about your new toy as you are."

Tutting, Lilith shakes her head and licks her lips. She presses a wet kiss to his cheek and tells him, "You need to get out more often, sweetheart."

"I need better souls down here to work on. Our standards are getting lax—those Crossroads children of yours will make Deals with just anybody, these days, and here I am, a craftsman, reduced to playing around with dregs that I wouldn't even give my beginner-level students."

"You need _patience_." Before he can point out that he has no time for patience outside of his work, Lilith bares her jack-o'lantern grin of fangs, snaps them at him to shut Alastair up. "The best days to be a demon are coming, Ali, and I haven't forgotten you in the plans for them. You're one of my stars, actually—and you'll have your finest reward yet in not too long at all. Just. be. patient. Everything's going to be different when Dean Winchester comes down here. And I’ll need all your expertise to break that boy."

He doesn't believe her, but true to Lilith's word, Alastair finds things different when Dean Winchester falls into the Pit.

 

When Dean Winchester comes to Hell, Alastair takes notice.

Choruses of demons roar and exalt, their voices echoing around the Pit's caverns and vaulted ceilings. Alastair doesn’t throw his in with them, doesn't raise it at all, but the twine muscles in his chest stir for the first time. Dust and sulfur shake off of them, and for the first time in centuries, his talons itch— _truly_ itch—to tear into some certain flesh and rip it apart, claim it as his own and wreck it. Break whatever unlucky soul he can get his hands on, even if they don't deserve his attention in the slightest. Just for the pleasure of breaking something.

The air changes. Even before he's seen the boy, Alastair can mark that much. Never before has Hell seemed so bright. Cheer replaces the tension. And hope, something they see so little of down here… Alastair strolls around the racks of the damned, admiring his students and their handiwork, whistling a tune he picked up on Earth. He pauses by Belial—or Meg, or whatever her name is since she followed her father Topside and found some new moniker she likes—and her current charge, little Bela Talbot. As she grins, Belial's fangs reflect a stray patch of light. It bounces off them and lights up trails of tears on Bela's cheeks, but even as Belial digs her talons into the girl's shoulders, she refuses to beg.

She whimpers. She cries. She screams—but she doesn't beg. … _Charming_ , Alastair drawls just before he makes his exit— _such a charming little princess, isn't she, oh yes… do your best with her, darling. Work her over well—use all those tricks I taught you and put your best efforts into them. Make the transformation a quality one… don't let her potential go to waste._

He'd look into that process himself, if he had the time. He would: even in the dark of Hell, the girl's soul shows off its tarnish, shows the dark patches where she’s been buffeted—here, some abuse or other from her father; there, some bond with Lilith that goes well past any notions of mental health; everywhere, a lack of trust, more neuroses and problems than most human beings have a right to—but little gleaming patches lurk beneath the dents and the lacerations, tiny glimmering things…

Most demons wouldn't notice the lights. They're the only things that cut into the darkness and yet, most of these putrescent children would sooner ignore them for the immediate satisfaction of ripping, tearing, hacking, slashing their way through souls. Quantity over quality, all instant gratification with no appreciation for their craft or what they’re doing here—tedious, the lot of them. Alastair pats Meg-Belial on the shoulder as he makes his exit, entrusts her with shaping this Bela Talbot into something beautiful.

 

And he should go right to his new charge, but there’s one extra visit that Alastair can’t deny himself. He hums as he traverses the path up to John Winchester’s rack, where the man’s still fixed, even after so many centuries, holding to his guns even after Lilith’s gone and found a back-up plan. He’s stretched out so nicely on his slab, heartstrings and muscles pulled so taut that they quiver and threaten to break at the lightest touch of Alastair’s fingers.

“You were my greatest failure, John—do you know that,” Alastair says without making it a question. It’s not a question, and the glint of pride in John’s eyes says that he knows this, too. Alastair tuts, digs a talon into the meat of John’s bicep, some memory of holding that little blonde thing he married—and once John’s bestial grunting’s died down, he continues: “We’re going to get you eventually, you realize. It happens to everyone. You’ll be worth all of the effort, in the end, but…” A pause. A pensive sigh, “Sadly, we have a time-table, schedules to keep to—religious obligations, you understand.”

John chews at the inside of his cheek, just to have something in his mouth when he spits into Alastair’s face—and as he wipes off the warm, sticky blood with its putrescent, sticky memories, Alastair bares all of his teeth in a smirk. “I have your son, John,” he hisses. “Let’s just see if he’s the good little soldier that his Daddy wanted.”


End file.
